


Watch Over You

by Milkss



Category: Elsword
Genre: Butler!Raven, Child!Add, No future relationship, Protector AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 16:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12369852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milkss/pseuds/Milkss
Summary: Raven has always been loyal to the Grenore household, an impeccable butler to the core.A tragedy strikes the manor, and before he can register, he has a young boy bundled in his arms, and is keenly aware of their pursuers, yet all he can wonder, is how he can keep this boy safe.





	Watch Over You

Edward is jostled from his bed, quickly, so he hardly has time to register the texture change from the carpet of his room to the cool marbled floors of the hallways. He has barely peeled his eyes open, the warmth from his bed still fresh on his skin and night gown, he can't even stifle a yawn before he's hoisted into proud arms, held tightly to a firm chest that breaths rugged. 

Edward blinks blearily upward, rubbing at his eyes with his palm, pulling away the sticky sleep that rests between his eyelashes. A man, tanned complexion and sharp features, he doesn't look down at the boy as he grips him tight, runs and makes sharp turns through the Grenore Mansion. 

It's then that the young boys senses return to him, and he registers the sounds around him, the scents that empower over the usual nothingness that is his home. It's burning, he can smell charred carpets and can hear the wooden beams split and crack, he can even hear the roaring of the flames, but above all he hears screeches. Panicked maids and butlers, the cooks and the chamber maidens, the advisers and the tailors, all of the faceless staff he's passed by without second thoughts, suddenly they have voices, suddenly own faces as they're locked under ablaze timber beams, all at once all these lives matter to him, because all at once, they're all losing theirs one by one. 

Add opens his eyes, fully opens them and lets it all rush into him. His home is on fire. What looks like the entire right side of his house is utterly crushed beneath itself, he even notices portraits of his great grandfathers and the expensive chandeliers swallowed up by flames. The vases he was always pre-reminded to be cautious around, shattered and melted. He looks up at the man who clutches him tightly once more, and it's then that they exchange eye contact. 

The man stutters on his steps for a beat, but rights himself and continues his frantic pace. That brief moment of eye contact tells this young boy all he needs to know. They're fleeing for their lives. This man has taken him from his bed and is now running, over destroyed parts of his home and even more grotesque, the corpses of the staff. He can even hear the splash when the man's well buffed shoes collide with pools of blood. 

Tears brim at the boys eyes. What had happened? He went to bed, he simply went to rest for the night, it was late after all, mother scolds him if he's awake after 10pm. What time was it now? What had he missed in his sleep? Why had his home suddenly collapsed and caught fire? Why do people have holes in their chests, their foreheads. But most of all-

"Where's mother? And father?" 

The man carrying him pays him no mind, doesn't acknowledge the question, and Edward briefly ponders if this is due to him being too focused on running away, on maybe he doesn't speak his language, father always employed people with curious backgrounds after all. 

The man skids, quite literally, to a halt at the mouth of a hallway. Edward tilts his head in the man's hold, taking a peek at what caused the man to halt so fiercely. 

"Hand over the boy, resist and we won't make your death quick and painless." 

People in white clad fitted uniforms, stained with red and ash. A line, thickened by three rows of them, aim guns - Of Nasod technology if Edward doesn't know any better - at the man holding him. They hold no mercy in their eyes, only a blank plastic mask of justice, almost pride. They had torn down his home, they had murdered the people who only a few hours ago washed, clothed and fed him, and they can still stand rigid with their chests puffed out. Edward stares agape. They want to kill him. 

"Why are you-"

The man holding him places him down on unsteady feet, his knees buckling quickly as he falls to the floor. 

"Thank you, you're co-operation is appreciated. Please kneel and we'll deliver a brisk shot to the skull, you won't even have time to register the pain."

How can they say this so freely? Why aren't their words weighted with guilt, why do they sound grateful that this will be a quick exchange, but not because they don't have to hurt the man? Edward understands, he doesn't resent the man from putting him down and handing over his life, it's a rational option when several guns are trained at your heart. So he doesn't scream or kick of flail when the man kneels beside him, doesn't demand why. He does look at him though, his eyes puffy and red, tears having spilt over, he doesn't even know when he started crying. He smiles at the man, watery and so very sad. 

"When I say, I want you to take the gun I hand to you, aim, and shoot the light above us, do you understand?" The man whispers, tone deep and hushed, hardly passing a grumble. 

Add's smile falls. 

_What?_

A single man patters away from the formation, jamming something into the side of the gun before adjusting his hold. He brings it to a still, levelling it with the tanned man's forehead. 

But the gun is gone. Quicker than Edward can register, the gun is in his hand, a baffled and now gunless man clasping at open air. _Did he disarm the man that fast?_.

"Shoot, Kid!"

Edward fumbles, but only for a second, he points upright and lets out more rounds than needed into the ceiling, hitting the light and bathing the hallway into darkness, he's grabbed quickly, hoisted into the familiar hold again, but he still clutches the gun in his hand with white knuckles. With this, they can be safe, with this they might escape. He looks around frantically at potential danger, other men in white uniforms.

"Do you know of any hidden passages in this place?" The man, out of breath, words to him, also looking around his just as tentatively. 

"Father's Office, three shelves down, move the books titled 'The Birth Of Nasodians' and 'Fusion Theory'." 

The man grunts and bolts for that direction, hold ever tight around the boy. Edward points the gun towards anything that moves, quite literally. He's poised and ready to unload at any potential danger, several times has he tipped the barrel at falling furniture and creaks in the floor. 

The anxiety keeps the boys aim steady, ironically enough, but after directing his aim at anything that so much as flickers, the boy is starting to get tired. Hyper-focus, shock and three fingers worth of sleep start to drain him, his eyes burning from the smoke, lungs aching too. His movements are becoming more sluggish too, he notices. He can't afford that, he knows, but he's just so _tired_.

"Not yet, keep them open for just a moment longer, just until we're out of the grounds at least." The man carrying him rasps out, the smog emitting from the fire likely the cause. He jostles the boy a few times, keeping him awake and alert, being aware of every time the boy becomes more pliant in his hold. 

They eventually burst through the doors concealing Edward's Father's office, the entire place tilted upside down, but luckily enough it was empty. The man whispers his thanks to every god he can name, and quickly scuttles to the bookshelf, yanking at the books with the titles the boy listed off. A lock unlatches, and the bookcase slides aside, but to what the man would of hoped would be a tunnel to escape, is an illuminated screen on a thick iron wall, 16 blank boxes present. 

"Wha-?"

"2383, AGGG, 5JUK, ENU6." Edward mumbles from the man's shoulder, and it doesn't register to the man cradling the boy that the series of letters and numbers was indeed the password needed for the blank spaces. He has to get the boy to repeat it another two times before a green light and a 'pii' of acceptance congratulates them-

"How the _fuck_ do you loose a 10 year old?!"

"Sir, I apologise, he was with a butler, he was armed, we couldn't-"

"I don't give two shits if you have to use a few rookies as meat shields, it'll be _nothing_ in comparison to what will happen if that boy gets out of here alive. That boy is Asker's, flesh and blood, he was conceived _specifically_ for...Nevermind. We _cannot_ let him get away, _am I clear?_ "

The man holds the boy close, squashed behind an overturned desk, hand over the boy's mouth to control his breathing and snivels. He gulps and breaths carefully himself, and waits the clack of metal toed shoes to move. 

"...And you've checked this room?"

"Every inch of it sir, no documentations or hard drives left containing aiding information. Everything useful has already been taken back to headquarters, sir."

The clipping slowly inches closer to the overturned desk. 

"And you're certain about that, yes? That there's nothing else worth while here?" The voice sounds thick with accusation. The man holds his breathe. 

"...Sir?" 

"Mr. Bentley, it appears you overlooked something far more important than documentation or research notes. You must remember, everything can be used as research. _Especially filthy lab rats_!"

The desk they hide behind is promptly kicked, hulking into the man's side with a grunt of pain. The man gasps but adjusts, shielding the boy further within the safety of his chest. Amber eyes lock with the boys fearful magentas. The ember eyed man nods to him before turning his attention back towards the stern man clad in white, said man drawing a sword from his side, veins of blue across the blade. 

_The gun._

Edward whimpers and lines his shot, squeezing the trigger along with his eyes. The blast rings out, but when the boy opens his eyes, he's met with a harsh splash and warm liquid coating his face, he blinks it away. Wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. It's stained red, and smells of old metal. Blood. 

The young boy raises his head to see the wound he'd inflicted on the white-clad man, but the gears start to settle together when he realises. The man is still standing. The man isn't bleeding. There is no blood on the man. _This wasn't his blood_.

His ears stop ringing, and the sounds of the world around him return, including that horrible grunts of immense pain, cries of agony. The white-clad man is fine, Edward himself is also fine, which means-

The butler. The one who dragged him from his bed, saved his life, and carried him through burning corridors. He saved him again, but this time to a more extreme extent. Not even a few centimetres away lies a neatly dressed arm, the white gloves adorning the hands are a little smudged from soot, and maybe the cuffs could of been folded over better, but ah. The arm wasn't attached to a person, the arm wasn't attached to anything. 

Edward drags his gaze from the appendage to his saviour. His saviour coiled over in anguish, bloodied hand clutching at his shoulder. _Just his shoulder_ , for there was no longer the rest to clutch at. 

He'd missed. He relied on luck to steer his shot to the white-clad man's temple, despite the horrific jitter of his arms. Despite his unsteady breath rattling him to the core. He'd missed, but the white-clad man didn't.

"Your loyalty to this wretched household is admirable, but short lived." The white-clad man swipes his sword to the side, the blood clinging to the blade shaking off in splatters, staining the carpet in ugly, uneven spots. He brings the hand not clutched around the hilt of his sword to his temple, rubbing it a little "Edward Grenore, your father and mother have caused our organisation more hassle and funds than you could ever imagine, this entire operation was worth double our yearly income, even."

The butler staggers to a kneel, huffing over towards Edward, grunts and gasps loud to his tiny ears. He uses the remaining hand to settle over Edward's own, still holding up the gun shakily. 

"I'll have you know-!" The white-clad man shuts his eyes while he monologues, letting out a dramatic sigh to complete the act "That your very birth caused us to invest more than your brain can even fathom! It's incredibly really, how much worth a mere 10 year old holds. But that ends here." 

The white-clad man looks down, reopening his eyes to greet the steel gaze of a barrel, cold and clean. 

"Wha-"

Ringing returns to Edwards ears, in succession of two shots. His palms burn but he holds steady under the warm cupping of the butler, he holds no resistance when his line of sight is jerked to the man stationed at the door, the one accompanying the now fresh corpse with two gaping holes in his skull. Like his company, he crumples, soundless to Edward's ears. 

A weight, heavy, much too heavy for his tired, aching body. His shaking has returned, without the stability of the hand around his, and just like before, sound begins to bleed back into present. The butler was bunched over, weight mostly upon Edward, and horrifically pale. 

Edward gasps and remembers, albeit late, that this man is _missing an arm_. Edward grits his teeth because god he's so _tired_ , but he imagines this man is too. He's carried him, shielded him, he even shot the bullets for him in the end, this is the least he can do for the man. 

He scuttles towards the severed arm, the blood and flesh still warm. He tares away the the fabric still clinging to it, ripping it into a continuous long strip, and grabs the under shirt to form a well padded cushion shape. Edward takes the umpteenth unsteady breath of the night, and patters back towards the unconscious man. 

Lines and lines of knowledge show themselves behind his minds eye, feeding him the methods of proper application, how to secure and cease blood flow. He supposes this is a rare moment when he can thank his father's relentless corrections. 

He pulls some fabric tight around the fleshy gush where the shoulder is bludgeoned away, stopping the splatter of blood as much as he can, before padding the wound and repeatedly winding the ripped coat around and around the socket until it slips away at its end. It's nothing, but it'll earn Edward a little while before he needs to gain proper medical help. 

He thinks fast, pulling open the draws of his father's overturned desk, a small sack that jingles in the corner. Edward stuffs it into the waist band of his night cloths, looping the drawstring around it. Money is a sure way to gain people's help, so he imagines it'll help to at least aid in funding this man's recovery. 

Little as Edward may be, he braces himself. Him, upon his weak legs unfit to run a few meters, reaches down to haul the man's chest onto his back, the man's large form swamping him. The boy grabs what he can to gain purchase on the man, his remaining arm and the tailcoat that drapes by his hips, and starts to drag him. 

The butlers shoes scuff as he drags, and he lets out pained groans while Edward shuffles him, but that only reassures the boy. He's alive, he's still here and that gives him the potential to save him. He re-enters the code that was left forgotten and hastily shut by the butler just before they scarpered under his father's desk, satisfied that it doesn't hesitate before opening, the bookcase parting and a brick stairwell downward to piercing darkness ironically being their salvation. 

Dragging the man down the steps (though not forgetting to shut the hidden door behind him, enveloping them in darkness). He luckily remembers the exact amount of steps downward, having frequented this place with his mother, which lead out into the outskirts of a forest, a village near by. 

Ideally, Edward would want the next village over, or even better the next one over to that. The village would be an obvious first choice for his pursuers, but he lacked the time, the resources. He needed to get this man to safety, and the closer the destination to enable this, the better. From memory alone does Edward haul the form upon his back down the several corridors and turns, having the false ones committed to memory. It's only darkness, the scrape of the man's well polished shoes, said man's pained breathing and Edwards own exhausted ones. 

It seems like hours, truly, until the end of the corridor starts to pan open, and if it were light outside the sunshine would be seeping through the cracks in the trapdoor, illuminating the steps up if only a bit. Luckily, his memory serves him well once again, taking the 8 steps up, 5th one missing its far left slab, and out of the trap door with a firm shove. 

His bones ache, he's sure he can feel each vein in his legs and chest burning from overexertion, and the foggy wateriness of his eyes becomes exceedingly hard to blink away. _So close_ , he can see the blobs of the dimly lit village, if he keens his ears he can even hear the quaint night life mill about the town. Soon he can hand this man over to safety, he can _rest_.

Edward takes a step forward, grass slippy from a light shower only but a moment ago. He gasps. It's so so _hard_. Tears spill over the rim of his lids but he keeps going, keeps stepping forwards towards this hope, and ever if his legs shake, his head thumping with too much adrenaline, he has to make it, _just one last push-_


End file.
